


You're Hot When You're Cold

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Ice Bucket Challenge, M/M, Scotland Yard, Tricksters, pull a fast one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:05:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is immune. Just make the donation and brace yourself</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Hot When You're Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mazarin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/gifts).



> This is for Mazarin221b who was having a bad day. I hope you smile for a few :)

"Case, John," Sherlock said, throwing a jumper at my head as he hit the stairs running. "Lestrade says it's perfect. 11 out of 10."

I heard the front door open and knew he was already tapping his foot and checking his phone waiting for me. Christ! I was still untangling the jumper from my sodding head and trying to get my shoes on.

"Today John,” he yelled. “Time and crime scenes wait for no blogger."

Through the door open at the street, I heard him shout for a taxi. Knowing too well he’d leave me behind, I scrambled down and out, catching the taxi’s door handle just in time.

"Look at this,” Sherlock said, pushing his mobile into my face. “Murder. In front of New Scotland Yard. Right under their noses, and they still cannot figure out how or who.” It was like Christmas to him. His whole body thrummed, ready to leap from the taxi when it finally stopped. “I predict it will take 9. No. 7. No more than 7 minutes to solve this ‘11 on a scale of 10’ case.” His voice dripped with derision for the professionals he had to endure.

"Ok. What'll we bet?" Smug ass bastard. I’ll put him in his place.

"What are you babbling about John?" He looked at me, confounded. Like he heard the noise but not an actual word. Could he seriously not even listen for a minute?

"You said you could solve it in 7 minutes. What do you bet?"

He crossed his leg over his thigh with more force than necessary and sniffed haughtily. "I can hardly bet when I have not yet seen the evidence.”

I laughed harder than I had in days. It was so Sherlock Holmes to make a grand assertion and then back out. "No. You said you could. How about, if you don't, you take that Motor-Neuron Disease ice bucket challenge that at least a dozen people have called you out on?”

Argh. Still. So damn smug. “And when I do solve it in under 7 minutes?”

“If you do, I’ll… I’ll cook and do your laundry for a month.” How could he back out with that on the table?

Another sniff. “You do that anyway.” His body language said ‘bored!’ but his eyes screamed, ‘I’ll show you.’

“I'm not supposed to be!” Damn my hand, giving away my frustration by flexing. “I’ll do it without complaint.’

“Fine. I accept your terms.” He turned his back to me sweeping that damn great coat around him. I swear I could feel his bloody smug smile.

I rolled my eyes.

When we pulled up in front of New Scotland Yard, we pushed our way to the throng at the crime scene, which consisted of 5 sturdy old wooden milk crates and the chalk outline where the body had fallen.

Sherlock didn’t move, stood there with his jaw dropped. “The body. What have you done with the body?” His voice dropped to a range reserved for rage. Oh God, I knew the signs. This was bad.

“HOW CAN YOU BE SUCH MONUMENTAL IDIOTS?” Sherlock’s arms windmilled as he tried to point to every person in the throng. Anderson. Donovan. Dimmock. Lestrade. And at least another half dozen I couldn’t name.

Lestrade stepped forward. “Sherlock. We had to move the body for religious reasons.” He tried to stop the tantrum, but didn’t even register to Sherlock.

“You have compromised the integrity of the crime scene,” he said, like he was talking to children. He looked at me and said, “Even you're not that stupid, John. How did these people rise to positions of responsibility?”

How do you not get punched every time you open your mouth, was what I wanted to ask.

On a tear, he berated each of them for incompetence, stupidity, even their parentage. But the great Sherlock Holmes missed the details behind him. The van that pulled up, the side door sliding open.

“Sherlock,” I said, trying to keep him from turning around. “They did the best they could—“

“Their best? Let me go to the local kindergarten. I know those children could do better!”

He didn’t see the NSY people grabbing containers from the van and sneaking back to the crime scene.

"Sherlock these people will work harder if you are nicer. I—“

"John, I have no Interest in being kind. Only in being right,” he said in the long suffering tone he adopted when he was done with us mortals.

Sherlock crouched down to examine the area inside the chalk line through the magnifying lens he pulled from his pocket, grumbling about inept procedures.

Fully-focused on the crime scene, Sherlock didn’t see me pull out my phone to record his movements. Anderson. Donovan. Dimmock. Lestrade. Each drenched Sherlock with bucket of ice water, pouring it over his head as he crouched.

Sherlock stood up sputtering, wiping his face and eyes when he was hit with six more, rapid fire, face high and inn front.

Sally said to my camera, “On behalf of Sherlock Holmes, New Scotland Yard has made 11 donations to the Motor-Neurone Disease Association.” The 12 officers cheered and tossed their empty buckets into the faked crime scene.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock,” I said, as I walked to him. “I'm so, so sorry.” I poured my small iced water over his head.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The water ran down his soaked fringe. Traced his cheekbones before falling off his chin.

“You?’ His voice was murderously quiet. “You were in on this?”

“Yes!” I know I should have felt bad, but I didn’t. I finally put one over on Sherlock Holmes!

He deflated and sighed. “My best friend.”

Ok, I did feel a little bad. I handed him the handkerchief from my pocket. “Here, use this. It’ll help some.”

“No,” he refused to take it. “You will need it.”

Eleven buckets of water hit my face and my front, like a firing squad. Before I could catch my breath, number 12 trickled over my head. It was Sherlock’s turn to grin at me.

He’d drafted Lestrade the same way I had. That freakin’ D.I. could keep a secret.

“Did you get all that, Mycroft?” Lestrade yelled to the CCTV camera pointed down on the pavement.

The camera raised and lowered, nodding. Even the bloody Government was in on it!

My mobile buzzed in my back pocket, somehow still dry.

**You're hot when you're cold! Who do we get? Lestrade or Mycroft? ;} --SH**

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all will donate to the MNDA in the UK or the MDA in the US. We actually receive help from the MDA, since my beautiful wonderful daughter has a form of muscular dystrophy. She's here. she's http://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorsdaughter Her writing is a bit of amazing, and she ain't bad herself!


End file.
